Shotgun

by Marie Sexton

  “Are you home?” I asked when Elena answered.

  “Yes. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” But I barely choked out the word and Elena, who knew me better than anybody else in the world, undoubtedly heard the strain in my voice as I tried to keep it all at bay.

  “Is it Naomi?”

  “Naomi’s fine. Is Greg there?” Because no way could I have this conversation with her if he was.

  “No, he’s at work. Dom—”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  She opened the door before I knocked, her eyes wide with alarm. One look at my face, and her expression softened from fear to concern. “What’s going on?” she asked as I followed her inside.

  “I just… I need…. Oh, God, Lane,” I choked, putting my head in my hands. Why had I come? Because now, faced with her unwavering concern and sympathy, I had no way to keep it all back. I felt the pressure of it rising, forcing its way to the top, hot and wretched and humiliating, yet completely beyond my control.

  “Oh, Dom,” she said. She pulled me down onto the couch, her arms around me, her lips in my hair. “Oh, honey, you’re such a stupid, hot mess.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” And with that, I lost it. I burst into tears like I was five years old. I held on to her and cried my heart out, shaking as she stroked my back. I hated myself for being so weak, but Elena would never hold it against me. She’d never throw it in my face. How many times had I held her while she’d cried over the years? And now, it was her turn.

  “Shh,” she soothed. “What’s this about?”

  I shook my head as the force of my tears finally subsided, unable to formulate an answer.

  “Is it Lamar?”

  No answer.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Is it because he doesn’t want you, or because you’re too much of an idiot to admit you want him?”

  I almost laughed. “The latter.”

  She rocked me, still rubbing my back. I was beginning to feel like the world’s biggest fool, but I wasn’t ready to pull away and face her yet. “What’s the problem, exactly? Your father and brothers?”

  “They’re part of it.”

  “And?”

  “And… I’m afraid.”

  “I know. You always have been. But is being this much of an emotional basket case somehow better than just admitting it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sitting up at last and wiping my face. “I worry….”

  “About what? Certainly you don’t think I’d hold it against you?”

  “What about Naomi?”

  “What about her?”

  “What if she hates me for it?”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, leaning forward to put her hand against my cheek. “Give our daughter a bit more credit. She could never hate you.” She tipped her head to the side, considering. “Well, not until she’s about sixteen, at any rate. She’ll hate you then, but it won’t be because you fell in love with another man.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “What if I’m right?”

  LIKE IT or not, I had to go to work. As much as I dreaded dealing with the garage, I couldn’t put it off another minute. I only hoped the evidence of my sob fest on Elena’s couch would be gone by the time I had to face anybody.

  Lenny was at the front desk when I walked in. “Hey,” he said cheerfully. “Where you been?”

  “None of your business,” I said, pushing past him into the back.

  At least Junior wasn’t around. I wasn’t sure I could have stopped myself from jumping on him and pounding his face into the dirt like I had when we were thirteen and he’d intentionally bent the spokes on my brand new bike. If it turned out he was Lamar’s stalker….

  I longed to talk to Lamar again. To hold him and apologize and undo all the damage I’d done during our confrontation earlier that morning, but I was too chicken to call. I hid in the office and sat at the desk, staring down at my phone, wondering how to make things right.

  A text. That seemed like a good alternative. A simple way to make contact without opening myself up too much.

  I’m so sorry, I typed.

  I didn’t hit send. I simply sat there, staring at those words, feeling their truth deep in my chest. God, I really was sorry. And I missed him more than I could fathom. And to my dismay, tears welled up in my eyes again.

  “Dom?” Dimitri said from the doorway.

  I hurriedly dried my eyes. Dimitri was my brother. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen me cry, but the last time had probably been nearly twenty years earlier, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my little scene with Elena repeat itself.

  “You have a minute?” he asked, coming into the office and closing the door.

  “What do you want, D?”

  He leaned against the closed door and crossed his arms. “I want to know when this is going to stop.”

  “When’s what going to stop?”

  He sighed in exasperation and gestured toward me. “This. Moping around and snapping at everybody and acting like it’s the end of goddamn world.”

  “What the hell does it matter?” And try as I might, I couldn’t keep the sarcasm and scorn from seeping into my tone. “As long as the family’s happy, who cares what’s happening to me?”

  “I never said that.”

  “That’s exactly what you said.”

  “Dom—”

  “This is what you wanted. For me to be alone. So go back to the family and leave me be.”

  “I never wanted this. I never wanted you to be miserable.”

  “You said—”

  “I know what I said, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  “Oh, really? How did you think it would be?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, looking ten years older than he was. “I don’t know. I thought it’d be the way it’s always been. All these years, you’ve been fine. You had Naomi, and even though you and Elena split up, things seemed good. Maybe things weren’t perfect, but you managed. You made do. I just want that again. I don’t see why we can’t go back to a time when the family was intact and oblivious and you weren’t walking around like some kind of emotional zombie. You were single, but you were happy, right?”

  I was too exhausted to be angry. “Happy?” I asked, my voice raw. “Am I supposed to be happy, knowing the only man I’ve ever loved is less than five miles away, but I can’t have him because my family doesn’t approve? Am I supposed to be happy living alone? And what? Should I be proud of how much this hurts? Or of how much I’ve hurt him? And for who, Dimitri? For you? For Dad?”

  “For fuck sake, Dominic, you were fine playing it straight all these years, and now you’re going to fall apart because things aren’t going your way?”

  “Yeah,” I conceded. “I guess I am.”

  He sighed in defeat and sank onto the threadbare chair by the door. He looked up at me, eyes contrite, cheeks turning red. “I honestly never meant for it to be like this, Dom. I thought you were just getting your rocks off. I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I don’t get it. I mean, how well do you know this guy, anyway? He’s Naomi’s English teacher, right?”

  “He’s more than that,” I said. I scratched at a stain on top of the desk, debating. “Remember when you heard me through the vent fifteen years ago, talking to Elena?”

  His eyes widened. “That was him?”

  “Yes. He was only visiting back then, but he moved here a few months ago. I didn’t know until the day I picked him up in the courtesy van.”

  “Jesus,” he said, his voice hushed with awe and understanding. “This is why that cop came to talk to me, isn’t it? He was asking about keys and some guy named Franklin. I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t make the connection. But it’s because of you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But… why was that cop asking about his keys?”<
br />
  It was time to come clean, and the thought no longer filled me with dread. The only thing I felt was an enormous sense of relief. And so, sitting there in the family’s garage, in the place where we’d practically grown up together, I told my brother everything.

  Well, not quite everything. I didn’t share the intimate details of my dalliance with Lamar or the depth of my feelings for him. I didn’t let myself cry again. But I gave Dimitri enough of the story that he understood Matt’s questions, and—I hoped—my reluctance to let Lamar go.

  When I was finished, he sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at his shoes. For a minute, we sat in awkward silence. “Maybe we can talk to Dad,” he said at last. “If we do it together, he’ll be more likely to listen.”

  I hesitated, hoping I hadn’t misunderstood. “You’d do that for me?”

  He grinned up at me. “I’m sure as hell not gonna let him saddle me with Lenny.” But he sobered quickly. “But Dom, this won’t be easy. The family’s going to freak. Are you sure this is what you want to do? Does this guy really mean so much to you?”

  I turned away so I could look out the window, not because I was desperate to see the pale autumn sky hanging over the bare parking lot outside, but because I needed to hide my face as I answered. “He means everything.”

  And having said the words, I knew they were true. Elena was right. Jared was right. As much as I hated to admit it, even Angelo had been right. I’d been fighting my homosexuality for so long, telling myself I had to because of my family, and because of Naomi. That hadn’t completely been a lie, but what I’d never fully admitted to myself was my discomfort at being labeled “gay.” And for years, it hadn’t mattered. There’d been nobody around for me to date. Nobody who tempted me in any kind of real way. So why deal with the hassle of coming out? But now Lamar was back, and everything was different. I loved him. Or, at the very least, I wanted a chance to find out if what I felt for him could develop into love. I was sure it could. But could I face what that meant?

  I remembered what Matt had said to me the first time we’d met. That first step—just saying the words out loud to the people who need to know—that’s the hardest part. But it gets easier.

  “I’m gay,” I said, not so much to D as to myself.

  He sighed. “I know. And it’s all going to be fine, bro. I promise.”

  He left, and I took a few minutes to get myself together. To rub the treacherous evidence of tears out of my eyes. I ran my fingers through my hair, and I stared at my reflection in the window.

  “I’m gay,” I said again, louder this time.

  Not so hard after all.

  I finally left the office, glancing around the garage as I did. First at Julio, who smiled encouragingly at me. At my father, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. At Lenny, who looked as oblivious as ever.

  I thought of Naomi.

  Of all my excuses, my fears for my daughter were the most valid. First and foremost, before I broke the news to my parents, before I said another word to Lamar, I owed her the truth. And knowing how she felt about it—whether she was horrified or not—would go a long way toward me knowing how to proceed. At least then I could finally be honest with myself and Lamar about exactly where I stood.

  Tonight, I’d talk to Naomi.

  The resolution strengthened me. It gave me faith. I lifted my head and put my shoulders back. I went back to work. I even apologized to Lenny for being rude.

  I couldn’t fix everything in one night, but I could start.

  I WORRIED Naomi wouldn’t be home that night. She’d been spending so many evenings at Elena’s, it was possible it’d be days before I had a chance to talk to her. I debated calling and requesting she come home, but couldn’t quite make myself do it.

  I wanted to fix things, but I had to admit I was scared to death.

  I needn’t have worried. Elena dropped her off shortly after dinner. Naomi huffed inside, tossed her backpack against the couch, and flopped down on it with an exasperated sigh.

  “Well, I’m here.”

  Her tone implied she’d been summoned against her will. “Did you have someplace else you wanted to be?”

  “No.” A single syllable, spoken with the type of offhand scathing sarcasm only a teenager could pull off. She puffed blue hair out of her eyes. “But Mom said you needed to talk to me.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. And she said if you tried to get out of it, to tell you to stop being an idiot and just do it.”

  “Nice.”

  “Well?” She held her hands up in exaggerated exasperation. “What’s the deal?”

  My gut clenched at the prospect, but turning back now would only prove Angelo right: I was a coward.

  “It’s about Lamar.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well—”

  “Are you guys friends again?”

  The question made me wince. “We were never not friends.”

  “Dad, you guys have been off and on so much, I was having a hard time keeping track of which weeks he’d be here and which weeks he wouldn’t. One minute, you’re best buds, and the next minute, you’re hiding from him and pretending he doesn’t exist.”

  “I haven’t been hiding from him.”

  “Okay. Just totally avoiding him like the plague, even though you know he gets depressed again when you do it.”

  I sighed, wishing she was still three years old and would take my word as gospel rather than questioning everything I said. “I had to make a tough decision. That’s all.”

  “And your ‘tough decision’ was to abandon Mr. Franklin and become a hermit?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay,” I said, sitting down next to her on the couch, searching for the words. “Here’s the thing: Lamar and I have always been friends, but I started to worry that my friendship with him was getting in the way of being the kind of father you deserve.”

  “You can have friends, Dad,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I won’t, like, die of loneliness or anything.”

  “I know. But I think….” Christ, how could I explain it? “Life is a journey. And you’re my copilot, Snowflake. Wherever I go, you’re the one riding shotgun, no matter what. And I don’t have room in my life for somebody who thinks they should get that spot instead of you.”

  She blinked at me, clearly astonished at my adult stupidity. “That’s seriously the dumbest analogy I’ve ever heard. First of all, any time I ride in a car with two adults, I have to ride in the back. It doesn’t really matter who they are. Even if it’s your dumb cousin Lenny, I don’t get to ride shotgun. That’s part of being a kid. Second, both your truck and your GTO have a bench seat in the front big enough for three, if it comes right down to it.”

  “But, no, honey,” I stammered, stunned she seemed to taking me literally. “I don’t think you understand—”

  “I understand everything, Dad. You’re trying to use this dumb car thing to explain why you can’t be with Mr. Franklin, even though you’re totally nuts over him.”

  “I….” I had no idea what to say. “Uh…. You know about that?”

  “That you and Mr. Franklin have a thing? Duh.” And then, upon seeing my stunned expression, “What, you thought it was some big secret?”

  “Well….” That was exactly what I’d thought, but it was clear admitting it would invite a truckload of scorn. “We’ve never talked about me, um, dating, or—”

  “I know you’re into guys, Dad. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You know?” I asked, feeling stupider by the minute. “Did your mom—”

  “I looked in your browser history. I know what kind of porn you watch.”

  “Oh my God!” I said, jumping off the couch. “You saw that?”

  “Yeah. It’s totally gross. If that’s what sex is like, I’m staying a virgin forever.”

  “Good!” But then her words hit me, and I sank back on the couch, trying not to feel
hurt. “Wait. You think it’s gross?”

  “Duh.”

  “It’s gross for two men to have sex?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I mean all the sweating and the body fluids, and guys’ junk hanging out all over the place. And then there’s the talking. ‘Oh baby, harder, harder—’” She said the last few words in a mockingly breathless voice that made me cringe.

  “Stop!” I said, holding my hands up, torn between laughter and unease. “I don’t ever want to hear that particular set of words come out of your mouth again. Deal?”

  She almost laughed. “Deal.” She sobered quickly. “Is that why you broke up with Mr. Franklin? Because you thought I didn’t know?”

  I sighed, unsure where to even begin. “We didn’t ‘break up.’ We weren’t ever really—”

  “Dad. Stop talking to me like I’m five, all right? I knew you kept changing your mind about being with him. I didn’t realize it was because of me. I mean, I started spending more time at Mom’s so you could have nights alone with him. Wasn’t that enough of a clue?”

  And suddenly our conversation a few weeks ago took on a whole new meaning. “Apparently not.”

  “What’s the deal? You didn’t want to tell me?”

  Was that it? Yes, but only partially. There was my dad too, and Dimitri. And my fear. But part of my resistance—the largest, strongest part—had truly had been in an effort to protect her from the stigma of having a gay father. I’d wanted to spare her that. “Being a teenager sucks—”

  “No kidding.”

  “And I didn’t want to make it any harder on you than it needed to be.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I didn’t want you to be ‘that girl with two dads.’”

  She rolled her eyes again. “What is this, 1952? It doesn’t matter. I mean, I don’t want to end up being ‘that girl whose dad’s in prison for sniffing little girls’ underwear,’ or, ‘that girl whose family was on an episode of Hoarders for owning thirty-two cats.’ But nobody really cares who you’re screwing.”